


Heaven (Can't) Help Me Now

by sarcasticsra



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 03:15:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4084564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticsra/pseuds/sarcasticsra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawkeye sometimes forgets Father Mulcahy is more than just a priest. He's about to get a sharp reminder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven (Can't) Help Me Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xDinahQueenx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xDinahQueenx/gifts).



> For a [Tumblr drabble/ficlet meme](http://tmblr.co/ZUQI3u1l_67dh), except this one stubbornly refused to be a drabble or ficlet. Prompt was: Hawkeye/Mulcahy, "You can't protect me." 
> 
> Thanks for the beta, Kelly!

Hawkeye yawned as he quietly pushed open the door to post-op. The graveyard shift--an apt term when there was the possibility for actual graves--was never a fun experience, and even less so when he was getting by on three hours’ sleep. He’d have to hit the mess tent soon for some coffee. It might taste like concentrated battery acid, but at least it’d keep him awake.

He wasn’t expecting to see Father Mulcahy sitting in a chair next to one of the battered and bandaged kids, eyes tired and worried as he watched over him. The kid was fast asleep, and the father seemed to be pretty focused, so Hawkeye checked two other patients’ charts before making his way over to them. “Not on speaking terms with the Sandman, Father?” he asked quietly, curiously picking up the kid’s chart. Fennel, Doug--that was right. Charles had operated on him. Relatively minor injuries, it looked like, and it wasn’t like Charles’ handiwork frequently needed double-checking. Hawkeye could picture his bristling pomposity at even the mere _thought_.

Father Mulcahy started slightly, glancing his way and smiling the way everyone smiled when it was long past bedtime: a slow half-stretch of the lips, almost like it required both mental effort and physical endurance. Which, come to think of it, it probably did. “I believe we have an appointment on the books for next Thursday,” he said. “I hope I’m not in your way?”

“Not at all,” he said, “but if you don’t mind my asking, why the bedside vigil? Fennel’s a little beat up, I’ll grant you, but he’ll be fine. Unfortunately for him, he’s still in fighting shape.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “I just felt… compelled. We had a discussion earlier today--well, yesterday now, I suppose--and I’m afraid I may have failed him.”

“You, Father? I don’t think you have it in you to fail anyone.” Hawkeye sat down on the empty bed next to Fennel. 

“What I wouldn’t give for that to be true,” Father Mulcahy said ruefully. “I’m a man, you know, in the end. A flawed, fallible man. I try to be--more, in my role here. A guide, an example, perhaps even a role model, in matters spiritual and not, if you could believe it. I’m afraid I let this young man down on all counts when we spoke last.”

“I’m sure you’re being too hard on yourself,” Hawkeye said. “Can I ask what happened?”

He smiled wryly. “You can ask. I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

“It was worth a shot,” Hawkeye said, grinning a little. “Come on. Let’s go get some coffee from the mess. If you’re going to keep this up much longer, you’ll need a little help.” 

Father Mulcahy yawned. “I suppose I could take a break for just a minute.” They stood, and Hawkeye watched as he gave Fennel one last worried look before they left post-op, headed in direction of the mess tent. 

“Fennel sure is a lucky guy, getting his own personal guardian angel. Or at least the next best thing.”

Mulcahy laughed, but it was a sad sound. “My, you have a much higher opinion of me than I think is really called for, especially under the circumstances.”

“All right, Father, I know I’m no you, but you’ve got something weighing on you, and based on your own advice, spilling the beans should help with that. Isn’t that the idea?”

“I wish I could. I’m bound by my oath--”

“Hey, doctors have an oath too,” Hawkeye cut in. "It even comes with our own little privacy guarantee. How do you think Sidney ever manages to get me to spill my guts?”

Father Mulcahy smiled wanly, staying quiet as they finished the short trip to the mess tent. It was empty, of course, and they each filled a mug with coffee and sat down at one of the tables. Hawkeye busied himself with dumping a little too much sugar into his coffee while Mulcahy stared pensively into his cup. After another long moment, he said, “Try as you might, I don’t think it’s going to turn into wine.”

Mulcahy laughed again, that same sad sound. “Believe me, Hawkeye,” he said at last, “I’m well aware of my inability to perform miracles.”

This was always the part where Hawkeye was inevitably reminded of why he would never have made a good priest or psychiatrist. People like Father Mulcahy or people like Sidney Freedman, they could sit quietly with someone, even if the silence was uncomfortable, and patiently wait for them to collect their thoughts, to choose what to say when. Hawkeye Pierce was not a man comfortable with either silence or patience; they made him nervous. At least with the physical kind of medicine, he usually had an excuse to use a stethoscope, syringe, or scalpel.

He tried not to fidget too obviously, but when Father Mulcahy smiled at him, he knew he hadn’t quite managed it.

“Silence isn’t always a bad thing, Hawkeye,” he said, as if reading his mind, and that was a terrifying thought, the idea of the father able to read his mind. _He_ didn’t always want the ability to read his mind; inflicting it on other people, especially someone like Father Mulcahy, just seemed unnecessarily cruel.

“I forget that sometimes.”

“Do you remember Private Weston?” Father Mulcahy asked abruptly.

“Not as well as his better-known twin, Public Weston," Hawkeye said lightly, even though he didn’t feel it. He remembered Private George Weston with crystal clarity, but he had no idea where Father Mulcahy was going with this.

“When Trapper was still here, you helped out a young soldier named George Weston. I believe he was homosexual?”

There were a number of topics Hawkeye had never expected to talk to Father Mulcahy about. This fell under the heading of about three of them. “Yeah, Father, I remember him. Why?”

“Why did you help him?”

The father’s tone wasn’t accusatory or judgmental, merely curious, but even so Hawkeye felt his hackles rise. He was aware the Catholic Church had some pretty specific opinions about this particular topic. “Because he didn’t deserve all that--he didn’t deserve his unit treating him like a punching bag, or Frank treating him like a disease, or--because it was all crap, okay? What business was it of theirs?”

Father Mulcahy nodded slowly, not saying anything for a moment. When he spoke next, it was possibly the last thing Hawkeye could have expected: “And because, perhaps, you felt… a kinship?” 

Hawkeye could swear the bench just up and dropped out from under him. His stomach was somewhere around his knees, there was bile at the back of his throat, and he rasped, “Father--”

Mulcahy touched Hawkeye’s shoulder gently, but his hand might as well have been a red-hot fireplace poker; Hawkeye jerked back abruptly, watching him with guarded eyes, wary. 

“Hawkeye, please, I--I’m sorry,” he said. “I--I’m doing it again. Believe me, Hawkeye, you’re not--” He stopped, took a drink from his mug, breathed deeply, and then said quietly, “Sometimes I can’t discount the idea that I became a priest because I’m a terrible coward. I think it was, in many ways, the easiest path for a man like myself.”

Hawkeye watched him for a moment, and realization slowly sank in. “Father, are you--” He stopped. “Don’t answer that.”

For once, Hawkeye embraced the ensuing silence, but only because his mind was anything but quiet. It seemed like a thousand thoughts were battling it out for the top spot, but eventually they settled around Doug Fennel. Had he confessed something to Father Mulcahy, something the father could relate to? How had he reacted?

“We should get back to post-op,” he said at last. “Our coffee break blossomed into a coffee intermission.”

“A good idea,” he said, and they stood. Before they could move too far, Hawkeye reached out and squeezed his shoulder, lingering just a moment. 

“You’re not a coward, Father,” he said. “I’m their ringleader, so I should know.”

Father Mulcahy met his eyes, and for however long that moment lasted, it was like Hawkeye was entranced, unable to look away. “Maybe not,” he said finally, “but if that’s the case, then neither are you.”

A lump formed in Hawkeye’s throat. He managed to say, “You are something else, though, you know.”

“Oh?”

“It's a little like what you were saying earlier. A role model? You’re even better than that. You make this place a little brighter, and we all know that’s a hard thing to do.”

“There you go again,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve earned the esteem you have for me, Hawkeye, but the Lord knows I try to manage.”

“I think the Lord also knows you’re too hard on yourself,” Hawkeye said, clapping him on the back. “Give yourself some credit, Father. How many other priests have their very own crazy agnostic following them around?”

Father Mulcahy smiled at that, the most genuine one Hawkeye had seen all night. “Thank you,” he said, and Hawkeye just nodded as they made their way out of the mess tent. He glanced Heavenward, then back at Father Mulcahy, a quick, silent prayer, one of the few he’d ever truly meant:

_Please, let us be right._


End file.
